It's not a foregone conclusion that fine dining chefs can run great brasseries. That demands a respect for tradition and the time-honoured recipes of generations of anonymous chefs and grandmothers, as well as a hand that turns instinctively to Elizabeth David, rather than to pin-ups of the latest hot chef in Caterer And Hotelkeeper.

Martin Wishart, who is feted like royalty on the Scottish gastronomic scene, has just opened the Honours in Edinburgh – "a contemporary brasserie in an interpretation of the Parisian classic" – headed up by Paul Tamburrini, whom he poached from Hotel du Vin in Glasgow. There, Tamburrini demonstrated that he could be persuaded to loosen his culinary stays and serve gutsier food, resisting that Michelin star-seeking urge to primp and posh it up.

At the Honours, the premises – previously home to a succession of ailing restaurants – are unrecognisable. There's none of the awed hush that characterises Restaurant Martin Wishart, but with its marbled walls and moneyed gold accents, the vibe is more casino in Dubai than the atmospheric Parisian model. Faux brasserie decor might have been worse, of course, and it's the food that counts.

I ordered crab chowder because I fancied soup with tangible strands of crab meat through it. Up pops an undeniably flavoursome but velvety-smooth soup with a blob of invigoratingly piquant aïoli. Half crab bisque, half bouillabaisse, it certainly wasn't a hearty, textured chowder, but it was indicative of a kitchen that views "brasserie" through a fine dining lens.

And what's the point of reinterpreting the classic cheese soufflé baked in a trusty ramekin? At the Honours, it arrives free-standing, upside down in a pool of deeply cheesy béchamel with a doll's tea party-proportioned tangle of spinach. Unfortunately, this sleight of hand means the crust goes soggy in the sauce and the texture of the white has to be somewhere between firm and bouncy.

Having only tasted the celebrated ibérico de bellota pig in cured rather than fresh form, the presa steak – a famously juicy cut from just behind the shoulder – was a must. I'd like to be able to tell you whether this semi-wild, acorn-munching porker really does taste perceptibly better than other pigs, but I can't, because it tasted overwhelming of charcoal.

And if you like a coq au vin that has been sent to finishing school to prevent it from hanging out with the peasants, then you won't demur at its treatment here. The bird itself was impeccable (free-range from St Bride's farm in Lanarkshire) and fell off the bone obligingly. The sauce, however, was a bland hybrid of the rustic red wine braise and that sticky, reduced, all-purpose brown sauce on which so many chefs rely. Give me the real thing any day, with its full-throated, purple, winey juices thickened with beurre manié.

Then again, when conventional, conservative outfits do let their hair down, they often get it wrong. Brasserie favourites – tarte Tatin, crème brûlée – are flanked here by a list of ice-cream parlour sundaes. Perverse, I know, and my peach melba sundae – a blur of white, orange and scarlet crammed into one of those thick, cafe-style goblets – rapidly became a mess of fibrous, fragrance-free peach lost in layers of neutral cream, ice-cream and meringue.

Chocolate délice though, was unimpeachable, albeit its honey ice-cream wasn't very honeyed and its preciously named "crème vièrge" tasted oddly like plain old whipped cream, but its slim-line serving was so slight as to be borderline mean.

Size is an issue in general at the Honours – that bellota steak was listed as 200g, so I can assume only that it shrank on grilling – and you need side orders to bulk up the mains, but these come in tapas-sized portions and aren't cheap, so unless you go for the fixed-price lunch deal or pre-theatre deals, the bill may feel more blow-out than brasserie. Edinburgh's Wishart fan base will doubtless love the Honours, though: a safe little walk on the slightly wilder side that never strays too far from the fine dining path.